it was most likely a holiday, as
she stood over the kitchen counter
bending forward to sip a glass of warm
pinkish liquid from a crystal wine glass
her hair was dyed almost black
and had lost its youthful shine
when she inhaled, the ember
of her cigarette shone hot amber,
just enough to force her pale lip gloss
to shimmer for a few seconds
his clothes were normally coated in dust
sometimes he clutched a tattered
comic book and his black finger nails
followed the words
as if he was actually reading them
he taunted the boys behind him
in the padded, torn green seats
until one day the red haired boy
took a swing and knocked his eyeglasses
onto the slippery bus floor
he was lying there, carefully unobtrusive
in a cold, dim room that stank
of urine and bleach
his hands were shaking slightly
the aquamarine colored blood
tenderly protruding through the veil
of transparent skin that was
carefully stretched over his bones
reminded her of
a hotel swimming pool
the weeds and wildflowers
grew above her head
even when she stood on her tip toes,
she could not see the cars that made
the rushing sound out on the road
she held a handful of mayflowers
and sniffed them periodically
with simple pleasure, and
when she returned to the house
she would put them in a glass of water
and leave them on the kitchen table
© 12.4.12 heather brager
